


take on me

by cicadas



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alive Gwen, Angst, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Developing Relationship, Excessive Amounts of Coffee, Flirting, Fluff, Grinding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Pet Names, Peter's Love of IKEA, Rating May Change, Sharing a Bed, Texting, Wade's Batman Mug, constant destruction of peter's flooring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-20 22:57:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14903771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadas/pseuds/cicadas
Summary: Peter refused to acknowledge he brought this situation on himself when he told Wade his address, for, quote: 'emergencies, in the likes of S.H.I.E.L.D finding out his current location, or a zombie invasion'.Wade's dismembered arm bleeding onto his fifteen-dollar IKEA rug was not what he would call an emergency. Or sanitary.





	1. you've got red on you

"You're bleeding on my carpet"

Wade's returning smile made him want to punch him in the face.

"Hot, right?"

 

He'd come in through the window Peter always kept locked, which meant he'd broken some part of the frame to get inside and collapse on the floor he was now lying on.

Peter refused to acknowledge he brought this situation on himself when he told Wade his address, for quote: 'emergencies, in the likes of S.H.I.E.L.D finding out his current location, or a zombie invasion'. Wade's dismembered arm bleeding onto his fifteen-dollar IKEA rug was not what he would call an emergency. Or sanitary.

He'd rushed out of his room, one web shooter on his wrist, the other in hand, wearing one sock and a pair of thin cotton boxers, ready to fight whatever it was that had woken him - then he saw the familiar hulk of black and red, and the buzz at the back of his neck dulled.

Wade.

 

"Hey, you think I could use your shower?" The merc called from the floor. "'I'm feeling a little dirty, and not the good kind. Unless you wanna join me. Then it'd be-"

"Wade. What are you doing here?"

Wade heaved into a sitting position as Peter reached out to flick on the light, and fuck, he'd definitely have to throw out that rug. Discreetly.

"Seltzer water and lemon for blood," Wade mumbled, hand reaching up to pull the battered mask from his face.

Peter pulled the other web-shooter onto his wrist (just in case) and crossed his arms.

"I- Wowza, baby boy, that _bod._ I should have broken in here way before this. Do you eat kale?"

"Wade. No kale. Why are you missing an arm?"

"Excellent story, baby boy, one I will tell you after I get into whatever shampoo you have in your bathroom. Help me out?"

Wade stuck out his existing arm and Peter took it, pulling him to his feet as best he could - Peter was stronger, but Wade was at least a head taller than him. He let go once Wade was upright, glad to see that he could stand fine on his own.

 

"You better not try to grope me," Peter warned, and Wade laughed at him.

"With what?"

Peter hid his smirk, shoving him forward, toward the door next to his bedroom.

"Bathroom, go. And please do not get blood on my towels, they're new!"

"What happened to the old ones?" Wade asked, spinning around to face him.

Peter reached around Wade's torso for the doorknob, twisted it and pushed the door open.

"I got blood on them."

 

Wade was striking in the white light of the bathroom. The white everything of the bathroom.

He stood, red and black and bloody between the mirror (facing away from the reflection) and the doorway, which Peter was currently occupying. His suit was in surprisingly good shape, small slashes and holes in the fabric at Wade's torso that he assumed came from knives and bullets - where exactly had he been before here?

Peter put his hands on Wade's chest and steered him back until his calves hit the bowl of the toilet.

"Sit. I want to check out your arm," He said, kneeling on an old shirt he hadn't put in the laundry hamper after his shower that night. He shuffled forward so he was between Wade's thighs, then patted one of his legs.

"Turn a bit for me,"

Wade looked down at him.

"Y'know, Pete, if you wanted to get between-"

"You make any reference at all to your dick I'm kicking you out right now."

"What about _your_ dick?"

Peter's mouth twitched. "We'll see. Now turn."

Wade did.

 

The sight wasn't pretty, but it wasn't as bad as Peter had initially thought. The wound had stopped bleeding, but the remaining blood had dried over the remaining skin, which was now a mess of red and skin and sinew trying to weave and knot its way through the mangled flesh. It didn't look like he'd cut it - Peter had seen the pocess and result of that. This wasn't it. It looked like it had been _torn_.

"Jesus," Peter whispered.

"Who did this?"

Wade knocked his knee inward, against Peter's ribcage.

"It ain't that bad. Got ripped off by this guy's guard dog - huge fuckin' guy, odd choice of moustache for his face shape, though. More paedophile than Italian waiter, you know?"

He reached an arm up and let his fingers linger on Wade's shoulder, careful not to get too close to the rapidly-healing wound.

"Does it hurt?"

Wade looked at him like he'd asked something completely ridiculous. His face softened.

"It won't, soon."

 

Peter let go of Wade's shoulder and stood up, brushing his hands down his legs.

"So, shower's there, you can use my body wash and all that stuff, I don't have much...um, there's a clean towel under the sink. I'll be in the kitchen, after I put some clothes on."

Wade just stared at him, an amused expression filling his features.

"What?" Peter huffed.

"Help me out of my suit first?"

Peter's fingers twitched towards the center of his palm. He was so tempted. _So_ tempted. Instead, he said:

"You can manage fine. You've done it before, several times. I'll be in the kitchen."

"Aw c'mon, Pete, you're gonna leave a poor one-armed child-"

"Not a child"

"Alone in a bathroom full of pointy things and possible sex toys?"

"I don't keep my sex toys in here."

Wade's eyes widened.

"Oh my god. Spidey has sex toys. Confirmed by the man himself. This is the greatest day of my life- yes, I know that, shut up. Where are they? Can we see?"

"Goodbye, Wade."

 

Peter shook his head at Wade's continued ramblings and snuck out of the room, leaving the door open a crack, just in case. Wade was invincible, but he was still human. He'd read somewhere that most accidents in the home happened in the bathroom, and Wade's equilibruim was probably thrown right now. Plus, he really did have new towels.

He walked the five steps to his bedroom and grabbed his jeans out of the hamper by the door. He pulled them on - loose around the hips, tighter around his thighs - scanning his floor for a shirt. There were plenty of clean one's in his dresser beside the bed, but honestly, he couldn't be fucked going in to find one.

The gas heater was on. He was warm enough without one.

 

Wade was humming.

It echoed off the tiled walls of the tiny bathroom and into open space of the rest of the flat.

His voice was deep, and the tune was off, but Peter recognised it as an old Beastie Boys song.

He wanted to go back in, show him how to turn the taps right to get the hot water coming out steady, help him strip the leather from his skin and run a clean cloth over the dried blood under the spray of the shower 

 

Instead, he pulled the belt tight in his jeans, went into the kitchen, and began making coffee.

 

Wade's voice grew louder in his ears until it was all he could hear.

He was singing, now. Something familiar - Salt n Pepa.

The pipes groaned and shook within the drywall as the taps turned on, and Peter let out a sigh of relief. Wade was fine. He didn't need him. He was fine.

The kettle whistled at him, so he took it off the stove and poured the water into a mug. Instant coffee grains, sugar, rice milk. Stir.

There was a clattering sound, then a loud curse in - was it Spanish? - from the bathroom.

"Shit. Uh, Pete? I may have pulled down your shower curtain. Totally an accident. Though I am more than willing to repay you in _any_  way-"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Wade, no dick references."

"You said no to my dick, not your own," was the responding call.

Peter smiled into his cup.

"I said we'll see. Now shh, you're gonna get me evicted."

"Evicted for talking about dicks? Fucking homophobes."

Pete let out a laugh at that, almost spraying coffee into his own face. He could just go in there. Sit on the toilet lid, talk to him. It wouldn't be weird.

"No, my neighbour is elderly, a light sleeper, and a bitch. She only moved in two months ago and she's complained about me twice already." He said, leaning back against the counter.

"What a dick. Want me to kill her?"

Peter laughed again. "No, I don't think so. If I change my mind, I'll be sure to let you know, though."

Wade's responding chuckle reverberated through the walls, sending a warm feeling through Peter's skin. He gripped the edge of the bench, closer to the stove, and focused on the heat there.

"Counting on it, baby boy."

 

Peter's eyes flickered up to the open door of the bathroom. The steam of the shower was visible through the strip of light, and the torn-down shower curtain was visible on the floor - clear with yellow ducks patterned across it. It was silly, but it came with the place, and shopping for shower curtains wasn't high on his to-do list. Wasn't on the list at all, really.

The ducks were kind of cute, too.

 

Peter's coffee dulled from hot to warm in his hands.

The shower had stopped, and he could hear Wade rummaging around in the cupboard under the sink. His eyes hadn't left the door.

He should probably look away.

Wade didn't have clothes with him. It'd be rude to stare him down in a borrowed towel.

The door swung open, and Peter's eyes flicked down to the mug he was cradling against his bare chest.

 

"Fresh as the Prince of Bel Air. Hey, did you know you smell exactly like your shampoo? I mean, that'd make sense, but still, revelation. Now I can smell like you."

"I like the way you smell," Peter said absentmindedly.

"...Oh."

Peter glanced up to see Wade staring at him, mouth agape, and a flush rose to his cheeks.

"I just meant that you smell good." Peter amended, but Wade was grinning at him, and oh fuck what did he do.

 

"Is that so, baby boy?"

Wade was watching him, eyes dark and questioning. His head was cocked to the side, grin still spread across his features, and Peter could taste the words that jumped out onto his tongue.

_Shut your mouth, Parker, for fuck's sake-_

 

 Peter brought the mug to his lips.

"Yeah. It is."

 

 

Wade's grin doubled. Peter couldn't help but return it.

"Peter Percival Parker, are you flirting with me? In this good Christian neighbourhood?"

Wade's false shock caused him to snort into his coffee mug, which he then set down beside him.

 

"My middle name is Benjamin, and most people round here are Jewish."

"You didn't answer my question,"

"I don't need to." Peter pushed himself away from the counter and made his way around Wade to his bedroom. There were shirts and a pair of sweatpants in the bottom drawer of his dresser that were a few sizes too big for him - he usually wore them as pyjamas - that he took out and brought into the kitchen. 

He held them out to Wade.

Wade just stared at them.

 

"These are for you," Peter clarified.

Wade cocked his head.

"Feel like playing dress-up? I've only got one arm and right now it's keeping me from indecent exposure."

He motioned down with his eyes - a gaze Peter did not follow.

"I'm gonna go to bed. These'll be on the couch for you to change into. There's a blanket thrown over the back of it - you can use that if you get cold."

Peter tossed the clothes over Wade's shoulder in the general direction of the couch.

"Hold up: You want me to sleep on your couch?"

Peter frowned. "Do you not want to? I assumed you'd want to crash until your arm grows back-"

"No, no no- I mean yes. I do."

"Good. Water's in the tap. You know where the bathroom is." Peter smacked Wade lightly on his remaining arm and headed back to his room, kicking the door half-shut with his foot so he could strip out of his jeans once more.

He paused at the sound of Wade's voice. Quieter than usual.

"Hey, Pete?"

"Mm?"

"...Thank you."

 

Peter's chest ached at the words.

"You're welcome. S'what friends are for, right?"

Wade didn't respond. He didn't need him to.

 

Peter pulled his jeans down and off and crawled into bed, feet kicking at the duvet until it covered his legs. He turned, tucked his arms into himself and curled his face into the pillow.

He was asleep within minutes.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> honestly, i really don't like how this turned out at. all. but i wanted to try and write fic that isnt sad or filled with pain. this is the result of that.  
> (attempting humor is not my forte. neither is folding washing. i just can't do it)
> 
> (it's 1.43am and i deleted five different v sad endings to this trash to rewrite when i could be sleeping. life choices. i have not made good ones)
> 
> (i made peter vegan deal with it)


	2. primrose & evening vanilla

Peter noticed two things when he woke up the next day.

 

One: Wade was gone.

Two: He had duct-taped the shower curtain rod to the ceiling.

 

He stared at the mess of grey tape on the water-stained plaster. It was surprisingly in line, tape wrapped around the fittings where they connected to the roof, extra lengths stretching across the ceiling, suspending the frame akin to something Peter would do with his webs. He’d even looped the curtain through the rod before taping it - which meant he'd jammed the metal through the plastic at the bottom, ducks left dismembered by slits he had created.

The metal rings meant for exactly that purpose clicked lightly against the tub where they hung suspended.

 

Peter clutched a clean pair of briefs, an undershirt, a button-up and the jeans he’d salvaged from the laundry hamper (they’d survive another day without a wash) to his chest as he scanned the bathroom for any traps Wade may have hidden.

It was unlikely, but Wade found most of enjoyment in other people’s misfortune. Peter didn’t risk believing he was exempt from that.

He lifted the bath mat in front of the toilet with this toes. Nothing. Nothing behind the curtain, either. Not that the ducks could hide much if there was. He let out a breath, dropped his clothes onto the toilet lid and stripped.

 

The hot water tap squeaked when he turned it.

He held it firm, twisted it back an forth just a little, then used his other hand to turn the cold.  Water sprayed out of the head in uneven spurts, cold, then lukewarm, and finally warm enough to stand under. Peter let go of the taps and reached down to the pump bottle of body wash.

It was labelled something fancy - primrose and evening vanilla, and it was supposedly environmentally sustainable - but if he was honest he bought it because the bottle looked nice and it was on sale for a dollar cheaper than usual.

Hard to go past a bargain.

 

Peter’s hands were cold against his skin where he rubbed them against his chest, lathering the gel into a streak of small bubbles over his body.  
His nails nicked at the soft skin of his nipple as he moved his hands over the area - he’d need to cut them, soon - so he was careful when he slid his hand down, fingers brushing through the wet mess of pubic hair below his navel, and gently pulled his foreskin back.  
  
He let his finger circle the exposed skin a little longer than was necessary to get clean, but, fuck, he was tired and sore and alone in his apartment again, so he let his hand dip lower. He twisted  his wrist a little, fingers wrapped around his hardening cock, and gave a few short strokes to speed up the process. 

He jerked himself fast and hard, nails nicking at the sensitive flesh on every other stroke, the sting of it mingling with the heat pooling in his gut. He could feel every drop of water from the showerhead as it hit his skin, beading at his shoulders and running steading down his back.

 

The water was barely above warm, but it felt like fire as it hit his skin, body hyper-sensitive to each touch.

He quickened his pace, not bothering with any sort of finesse in his movements - he could do that later, when he wasn’t going toe to toe with the hot water service - instead focusing on the ache in his muscles, the heat turning to a burn as he worked himself closer, wire twisting tight in his groin.  
Fuck, he was so close.

Peter let out a shocked gasp as his thumbnail dug into the head of his cock, the sudden burst of pain tightening the coil in his gut until it tipped him over the edge.

His head went blank as he came, arms slacking, one  elbow resting against the adjacent wall to keep himself from slipping on unsteady legs.

Peter stood still, breaths coming out in pants, cock softening in his hand, and waited for his breathing to settle back down to normal.

 

  
The spray sputtered, stopping for a moment, then continued, allowing Peter to rinse himself off, coming down slowly from the high of his orgasm.  
He gave his hands a once-over with some shampoo before bringing them up to his head.  
  
Eyes squeezed shut, Peter dipped his head under the water and made quick work of scrubbing a handful of vanilla-scented shampoo into his hair. His fringe flattened against his forehead and over his eyelids, some strands reaching down to his nose with the weight of the water.  
He’d need to cut that, soon, too.

Peter brought his forearm up and rubbed at his eyes, clearing the hair and water from them so he could see. 

He looked up at the wall of white tiles in front of him and froze.

 

In what he could only assume was dried blood, a large love heart(complete with D + S written in capital letters and an arrow piercing through the centre) was painted across the wall.

Peter reached out to swipe through the drawing, cringing at the texture of the blood beneath his fingertips, fingers leaving little red trails when he retracted his hand. He hung his head under the spray.

“Fucking hell, Wade.”

 

 

 

Dry and dressed, Peter collapsed onto the couch with two unmatched socks on his feet and his phone in his hand.

The floor in front of him was - astoundingly - completely clean. His IKEA rug was missing, meaning Wade must have taken it with him (along with his beat suit and weapons) when he left in the night. The floorboards beneath had a dark stain in the wood, but was essentially spotless on the surface.

Peter noticed the clothes he had leant Wade resting in a pile on the arm of the couch - folded in some kind triangle shape that was more origami than folded laundry, but he tried.

Peter swiped his phone open with his thumb, pulled up the messenger app and fired off a text to Wade.

 

  
_You wanna explain what that was in my shower, Phantom of the Opera?_

 

The response was almost immediate.

 

**Wade:** _  
Baby boy, I sincerely apologise for jerking off in your shower, I totally thought I got rid of the evidence. Are we not at that stage of our friendship??_

**Wade:** _  
Also, disfigurement joke? Low blow, Parker, I thought we agreed. _

 

Peter’s face flushed in a mix of embarrassment and something else at the thought of Wade doing exactly what he just did only hours prior, in his own shower. He sucked his cheek between his back teeth and bit down. Wade was probably joking. He said shit like that all the time - plus, Peter most likely would have heard him if he did something like that. Not that he was listening.

His fingers hovered over the keypad on his screen.

 

_ I meant phantom as in you ghosting on me last night. And I was referring to the psycho stalker heart on my wall._

Then,

_ I wouldn’t joke about your skin, Wade. _

 

It was a full minute before Wade’s response came through.

 

**Wade:** _  
Well, in that case, divine reference baby boy, I dig. Oh, and that was my profession of love to you, I thought it was obvious with the arrow and the initials. Hey, you wanna patrol with me tonight? It's so much more fun with you around. Plus I like watching your ass as you kick ass. ( & face & all the other body parts.)_

  
  
_What about your suit?_

  
**Wade:**  
_ Always got back-ups, my sweet sugar bear. _

  
  
  
_No sugar bear._

 

Peter’s eyes flicked up to the top of his screen. It was 3.45pm. Fuck, he’d slept a long time. He glanced over at the stain on his floor (he’d definitely need to cover that with another rug), and typed out his response.

 

_Meet me on our usual rooftop, sunset_.

  
**Wade:  
** _Romantic. Ooh, can we get nachos after? Juan has started putting this new salsa on top and it’s so good._

 

Peter smiled at the screen.

 

_Fine _

_ But only if you behave _

 

Peter rolled his eyes at Wade’s response - a string of angel and heart emojis - and sunk himself further into the couch. The origami pile on the armrest caught his eye once more, so he reached over and clutched the shirt on top, holding it up in front of him with the intent to fold it properly.

Instead, he brought it forward, scrunched the fabric under his nose, and breathed in.

It smelled like skin and clean sweat - worn, but lacking the usual smell of gunpowder and something earthier that Wade usually had.

Wade was right. He did smell like him.

 

 

He sat in silence for a moment, staring out the window at the fire escape of the building opposite him. His apartment was fine - nice, even - but he definitely preferred the view from the rooftops when he was out on patrol, city never dark even at night, lights and noise all around him yet so far away as he swung through it all.

He brought his phone up to his face and hovered over the messenger app.

 

_Did you really jerk off in my shower?_

 

 

The alert tone dinged as Peter was arm-deep in dishwater, rubbing a sponge into the coffee cup he'd used the night before.

He dried one hand on the tea-towel hanging on the cupboard door beside his legs and reached over the stove for his phone.

He had two new messages.

 

 

 **Wade:**  
_Maybe next time_

  
**Wade:**  
_If you join me_

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> trash? yes. hungry? yes.  
> minor rating change for a casual shower jerk-off. probably not necessary but i did it anyway.
> 
> (i am so tired, and i want to eat some food with mushrooms in it)
> 
> (bonus: i have to slam my door to shut it and in doing so i just shorted out the power to my fucking lights, so now i am in the dark with two power points and no lamps. jesus wept.)


	3. third window

Peter was freezing.

 

The sun was bright during the day, but outside now, sky dark and lacking cloud cover, it was ridiculously cold.

He tucked his hands between his thighs and waited for Wade to finish up - he'd broken into a porta-potty of a new storefront construction site, saying it was absolutely an emergency and no he couldn't wait to use the McDonalds bathroom.

It was illegal, but Peter supposed it was better than him pissing in the street (which Wade would probably do). He'd also promised to fix the lock after he'd broken it, which was what ultimately caused Peter to relent and agree.

 

Peter stood out the front of the plastic toilet, hands between his legs, and prayed nobody decided to vandalise this particular construction site while he waited for his friend to take a piss.

Maybe after they'd left, but not now.

He was in his suit, after all. Aiding and abetting a mercenary to use a privately hired toilet stall wasn't on Spider-Man's list of civic duties.

 

The toilet door burst open, banging against the wall with the force if it, and Wade stepped out.

"In-flight entertainment!"

Peter turned, hands still pinched between his thighs. 

"What?"

"They need in-flight entertainment for bathroom stalls. I swear, no-one would vandalize public bathrooms if they weren't bored as fuck. Hey, you need to go too?"

Wade motioned at Peter's stance.

"The place would have to be in flight for it to be _in-flight_ entertainment. And no, I don't. I'm freezing. Come on, before some guy with a flashlight yells and waves his arms at us."

"That's a real thing? Holy shit, Spidey, I wanna stay and see someone do that. I want that as my next job."

 

Peter raised an arm, ready to fire off a web to the corner of the building opposite them.

"I'd wanna see that. You'd look good in cargos. Race you?"

Wade held his arms up, hands clutching the air like a toddler.

"Carry me?"

He pressed his two middle fingers to the centre of his palm and the web shot out, sending a vibration down Peter's arm when it connected securely with the concrete.

He rolled his eyes even though Wade couldn't see through the lenses of his mask, pulled down, and jumped.

 

The webbing pulled him up high and fast, body heading quickly towards the rendered brick of the building, so he shot off another web to his side that connected with a neighbouring fire escape.

He let go of the initial strand and let himself swing, the cold air rushing against his face like pinpricks, until his feet connected with the top rung of the railing.

The buildings weren't very tall - a few floors at the most - so he leapt from the railing to the wall and began to climb. His toes and fingertips gripped the surface and allowed him to crawl upright as easy as walking - easier, really, as the walls of high-rises weren't occupied with hurried, impatient pedestrians.

He reached a gloved hand over the ledge of the rooftop, kicked off, and pulled himself up to land on his feet on the vacant roof.

Like most residential buildings it was flat concrete, a few air-conditioning units to one end and a vent-pipe near the corner of another. It was also empty, which meant Peter had won.

Again.

It wasn't ever a fair competition, but Wade never complained, and Peter liked winning.

 

The minutes passed by slowly in the cold.

Peter's ass was a mixture of sore and numb where it sat perched on the concrete, his legs dangling over the edge, feet kicking like a child.

The sky was nice.

It wasn't often he ever looked up - he was moving, swinging and falling and hitting, or up so, so high looking down.

He couldn't remember the last time he just looked - really looked - up into the mass expanse of nothing and made himself feel small.

He wondered how far he'd have to go, away from the city, to begin to see stars dotting the sky. Unreachable and real and beautifully complicated.

 

He could hear what could only be Wade travelling up the fire escape, the groan of rusted joins like nails in his ears - but there was another sound, too.

Familiar: pain. A woman. Not shouting out, but at something.

Someone.

There was another voice, deeper, masculine, and his ears instinctually honed in on the sound until he could barely hear anything else.

They were yelling - what he could only guess was a husband and wife, towards the end of what could be called middle-aged by the sounds of their voices - one high-pitched in a near scream and the other cursing, loud and low.

He couldn’t see - all blinds were drawn, and most of the lights were out - but he didn’t need to to know where it was coming from.

Second floor down, third window. Small place. Two occupants. The hum of their refrigerator was louder than normal.

 

The sharpness of a sudden crash rang out in his ears, causing his head to whip to the side, in the direction of the noise. Something had been thrown - a plate or bowl or glass, something that shattered, and the returning shout of _‘You fucking bitch, you throw another one of those at me and I swear to God I’ll kill you’_ sent a shiver through him that stung worse than the cold.

There was a sniff, and the next words were thick and quivering.

_‘Get out!’_

_ ‘Me get out? I pay for this fucking place, you get out! Fuck off back to your mother’s house for the night. Then both the fuckin’ crazies will be under one roof.’ _

_ ‘Don’t talk about my mother like that, Frank!’ _

 

“Spidey?”

 

_ ‘Talk about her like what? I’m telling the truth, Diane, isn’t that one of your fucking therapy session analyses of me? That I’m a liar? That I'm controlling? Well here’s some truth for you: your mother is fucking insane, and an alcoholic, and she’s the reason you’re so fucked in the head.’ _

_ ‘Stop it, Frank!’ _

 

“Spidey.”

Wade was behind him.

He was huffing, out of breath from the run up to the roof, hand tentatively resting on his shoulder like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch.

Peter didn’t turn to face him. He couldn’t. He had to keep listening - make sure nothing happened. He had to intervene. He had to do something. He said-

 

“Pete, what’s going on? What do you hear?”

Wade’s voice was soft, almost strangely soothing.

He almost didn’t answer him. If he spoke, he might miss something - if something happened; if things escalated and he was distracted…It was his fault. He rushed the words out in an exhale. He still didn’t look back.

"There’s a couple. Older. They’re arguing. He’s- I think she threw a glass at him.”

The hand on his shoulder tightened its grip.

“Domestic disputes are rough. At least she’s fighting back, that’s a good sign.”

 Peter turned, then, face twisted and eyes furious.

“What the fuck are you talking about? He fucking threatened her, Wade, I should go in there, I can’t just sit and do nothing,”

 

_ ‘Clean this shit up, and I swear to God if you throw another fucking thing at me you’re gonna feel it.’ _

_ ‘Just stop it, Frank! I’ll clean it now, just- just stop it.’ _

 

“You can.”

Peter’s chest was tight.

“I can’t.”

Fingers dug into his skin. Keeping him there. Keeping him steady.

“Are they hurting each other?”

Peter frowned. “No, they’re not. But he said he was going to-”

“Then we’ll keep an eye on him.” Wade’s voice dropped, laced with something too close to apologetic and Peter felt sick. “You can’t fight everyone’s battles for them. Trust me Pete, you can’t do any good here. We can call in a noise complaint and let the cops handle it.”

“Wade-”

“ _Peter._ You can’t fix a marriage by busting through the window in spandex and demanding they treat each other good.”

 

Wade was pulling him back, away from the ledge, chest warm against his spine even through the thick material of his suit. The voices were fading - the shouting had stopped. They were talking, still, but Peter’s focus had drifted and he couldn’t pick up the words.

Arms snaked around his body, tightening until Peter felt himself being lifted, so he tucked his feet up and over the ledge, reluctantly reaching them back down. Wade didn’t let go once he was standing.

“Let’s go home, okay? I’ll make the call, find out what I can on the guy. What room was it?”

Peter turned his head to the side, mumbling his response into Wade’s forearm. He felt sick.

“Alright. Got it. Want me to come home with you?”

 

(Yes)

“No, it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?

(No)

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m fine, Wade. Just- make sure, okay?”

 

He felt the wind immediately assault his back once Wade stepped away, and he found himself wanting those arms back around him. Even if it was only to keep warm.

Peter’s fingers twitched at the trigger point of his web-shooters. The muscles of his shoulder ached.

He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

The sick feeling lurched in his chest when he swung.

 

-

 

 

 

Hours later, Peter lay wide awake on the couch, head resting on the sweatpants Wade had used like a pillow, feet propped up on the armrest.

His phone was heavy in his hand.

 

 ** Wade: ** _**  
** You good bb boy? _

 

He was tired, and distracted, and hungry. They hadn’t ended up getting the nachos he’d promised Wade, and Peter forgot to eat once he got into the apartment, his civvies slightly wet from the rain that had started up just as he reached his building.

He didn’t think too long on his reply as he typed.

 

 

_ Come over? _

  
 

As soon as he sent it, four new messages came through in quick succession.

  
 

**Wade:** _  
I’ll be there in 10 _

**Wade:**   
_ I looked into your guy. No past history of violence, only arrest was for drunk and disorderly outside a theater. He’s an asshole, but not a criminal. Don’t worry about it too much. _

** Wade: _  
_ ** _ May have also done a house call. _

** Wade: _  
_ ** _ He’s sorry. _

 

 

Peter let himself relax at the words as they came up on his screen.

Next door, he could hear his neighbour Millie watching television. There was a channel that aired classic cartoons late at night, and sometimes he’d hear the animated voices of the Looney Tunes and Pinkie and the Brain float through his walls when her young daughter woke up at night, slowly settling back to sleep with a bottle and bright colours on the screen.

Peter had babysat for her once. Millie had an interview in the middle of the day for a retail job, and her sister was busy at work. They hadn’t talked much before that, but she said there was something about him she trusted, and they’d been neighbours for a long time so could he please do her a favour? She’d pay him once she got her slip at the end of the week.

He of course said yes, and hid the money she’d given him under her fruit bowl - he’d refused to take it, and she’d refused to keep it, eventually thrusting it into his hands and hurrying away, Demetra giggling in her stroller. He’d visited a few days later to see how the interview went and returned it then. (She didn’t get the job, but was hopeful for the future. She’d find something, she was sure.)

Peter admired her optimism.

 

Two quick knocks rattled the glass pane of the window.

Peter looked up to see a tall figure dressed in jeans and a hoodie, fiddling with something in his hand. The wood groaned as the window was worked open, a burst of cold air rushing into the room, and along with it: Wade.

 

“Dude, it is fucking cold outside. I think my testicles may have fallen off because I honestly can’t feel them. Can you check? I don’t wanna look.”

Wade’s voice was a loud and welcome distraction from his own head. Peter smiled despite himself, knowing it would only spur on the lewd jokes. Tonight, he didn’t really mind.

 "I’ll decline that offer, though I’m honoured I was your first choice.”

“Oh, no, you weren’t - I asked this old lady next door to have a look but she took a stab at me with her knitting needles.”

Peter laughed.

“You did not! She puts wire spikes on her window-ledge to stop birds from landing there. Besides, I thought I was your only late-night visit?” He said, looking up at him through his eyelashes.

 

Wade slid the window shut and turned, mouth lilting at the edges.

“Course, baby boy.”

 

Peter’s gaze drifted down to the insignia on his hoodie - a black, comfy looking thing - and he rolled his eyes.

“Nice merch. Did you really have to wear that to break in to my place?”

He pointed at the large Spider-Man emblem printed on the fabric. It was identical to the one on the back of his suit, though this one was coloured white, not red.

Wade held a hand to his chest in mock offence.

“Excuse you, this is the highest street-corner quality. I’ve been told it was made by the Spider himself. And I do not break in.”

“You break in.” Peter said, sitting up. “You know, if you buzz me I can let you in through the door.”

Wade crossed the floor and flopped down on the couch cushion Peter was patting with his hand - nearly sitting on it - and sighed. “Where’s the fun in that?”

 

The silence that followed was warm.

The radiator made quick work of bringing the room back up to the set temperature, and the heat worked a comfort into Peter he didn’t know he was lacking. Or maybe it was Wade’s shoulder pressed up against his, the cotton of the jumper pleasantly soft against his skin, body heat transferring easily through the fabric.

It was…nice.

Wade shifted, leaning slightly away, and Peter found himself moving, too, chasing the warmth on his side.  
He was tired, physically, but mostly emotionally, and he couldn’t be bothered with the overthinking a display of affection usually brought. So instead he closed his eyes and let his head rest gently against Wade’s shoulder.

Wade was tall, broad-shouldered, which made an excellent pillow in Peter’s opinion. He wriggled down onto the couch further and hummed contentedly.

 

“Well, someone’s a clingy wittle spider when he's tired.” Wade cooed.

Peter huffed and turned his face closer into Wade’s arm.

“Oh, this is adorable. Did you call me over to tuck you in, Petey-Pie?”

“No Petey-Pie,” Peter mumbled.

“You are definitely a Petey-Pie right now. Come on, let’s pop you into bed.”

Peter reached up and tugged on the front of Wade’s jumper, pulling him back down when he tried to stand.

“No.”

“No?” Wade’s voice was light.

He seemed amused by his actions, at the sudden closeness, but Peter was so relaxed he couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

“Stay. Talk to me.”

“About…?”

“Anything. Frogs?”

Wade’s resounding laugh jostled Peter’s head, so he wrapped his arm around Wade’s neck to keep himself in place.

 

“Peter…” Wade began, voice careful.

“No. Just…let me? We can talk about it later. Just talk to me. At least until I fall asleep?”

“…Alright.”

“You promise?”

Wade hesitated, body stiff under Peter’s arm. “I promise.”

 

It seemed like forever until Wade relaxed beneath him, head coming down to lean on Wade’s own, and his mouth started up again.

“There was this one frog I found while taking a shit in the jungle - one of my first jobs on special ops, mean fuckin’ place - and it was this stripy yellow little thing, so cute, kinda looked like Tobey Maguire, and back then I was not the super-genius I am now but I still knew magical-looking frogs were bad news, so I kinda had to make an effort not to clench up, if you know what I mean,”

“Ew, Wade,”

He laughed again, the movements of his chest soft, a gentle buzz beneath him.

 

Wade continued his story, spinning a tale Peter assumed was less than half true (at some point Wade mentioned he’d fought a bear and come out alive by pretending to be one of its cubs, nursing on it and living in its bear-cave for four weeks before he made his escape).

Peter let his arm slip from Wade’s neck, limbs loose and heavy, and listened.

 

  


 

He woke up suddenly, arms flailing, trying to free himself from the grip he could feel on his legs.

“Shh, hey, hey, baby boy,”

His head hit something soft, and he realised he was in bed. That he’d been carried there.

He felt hands move from beneath him, fingers dragging lightly across his back. He rolled on his side to chase them, arm reaching up into the dark and feeling rough skin beneath his fingertips.

 

“Wade?”

His own voice was croaky, tongue dry in his mouth.

“Yeah. Yeah, Pete, it’s me. Go back to sleep.”

The words were soft.

The skin beneath his hand retracted.

 Peter shook his head into the pillow. “Stay.”

“Pete-”

“Stay. You promised.”

 

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. “You promised.”

 

Wade whispered words he didn’t recognise as he moved from where he stood at the side of the bed.

Peter felt the mattress dip behind him, knees knocking against his leg before stretching out as Wade lay down, shuffling away so that they weren't touching. The covers were pulled out from beneath him, up and over his legs and tucked under his chin.  
He could feel the heat radiating off Wade’s skin where he lay on the other side of the bed.

Skin, t-shirt, jumper, duvet, t-shirt, skin.

 

Peter’s eyes stayed shut. In the dark, he didn’t have to think about what he was doing. What it meant.

He reached behind him, fumbling for Wade’s hand and clutching at it when he found it, bringing it up around his waist, wriggling backward until his body was flush against his chest.

Wade’s arm froze, then tightened around him, pulling him closer.  
Peter hummed. He could sleep like this. Held. Safe.

His breathing was a rhythm against Peter’s back that lulled him sleep, like a physical lullaby. Like he was being rocked.

 

He fell asleep with Wade beside him for the second time that night.

 

 

He woke to his alarm ringing in his ear hours later alone. .

The bed was made up (very, very) roughly on one side. Wade was gone.

 

  
He reached out for his phone, switched the alarm off and opened up the messenger app.

 

**Wade:**  
_Sorry_

**Wade:**  
_I snore. Didn’t want to keep u up_

 

Peter stared at the screen for a full minute. His fingers shook like they did when he was a teenager.

 

_ I slept fine. You’re never there when I wake up. _

 

He’d brushed his teeth, dressed, and eaten two bowls of cereal as breakfast before a reply came through. He didn't look at it right away.

 

 

**Wade:**  
_I know_

 

 

Peter dropped his bowl and spoon into the sink and stared up at the ceiling. It was early, still, and the noise from the apartments surrounding him were minimal. He could hear the hum of electricity in the lightbulb above him, the water filling in the cistern of the toilet, his own pulse as blood pumped through his body. It was louder than anything else. Deafening.

 

 

_ Come back and talk to me. _

 

 **Wade:**  
_Can't_  


**Wade:**  
_I have a job. Be gone for bout a week. I should have cell service tho. I can text you and send you sweet pictures of dead bad guys._

 

 _You suck, Wade. Honestly. Are you afraid to get_ _close to people??_

 

 

Three hours later his phone buzzed.  
One new message.

 

 

 **Wade:**  
_Only you_

 

 

 

Peter clutched it tight to keep from throwing it across the room.

 

_Don't be. Please._

_Be safe. Come back._

_The window'll be unlocked._

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...
> 
>  
> 
> why did i do this? nobody knows. it goes on forever and still i couldn't end it on a happy note. who would've thunk it? (me, i thunked it)
> 
>  
> 
> (extra note: i did a modelling thing for my friend's uni assessment yesterday and my face reacted to the creams she put on me. i've been a puffy red-faced whinge all day and all i want is to cook and eat some bok choy)


	4. stasis

Wade was gone for a month.

 

The first couple days, they texted. Wade responded, short, flustered phrases that let Peter know he was okay. Doing fine, home soon.

After a week the messages stopped.

After another week, Peter stopped sending them, too. If Wade was in trouble, it meant his phone was probably confiscated. He didn't need to send them (whoever 'they' was this time) any more data.

Peter told himself not to worry.

He read, he tinkered, he watched TV on the sleepless nights, served people their meals and coffees and cakes during the day. Brushed his hands hands on his pants and cracked his knuckles. 

 

Another two weeks, and a steel-capped boot shattered his window.

 

Peter's head shot up from where it rested against the back of the couch.

Glass shards pricked at his ears as they fell from the rotted wood of the frame and onto the new rug. He'd bought it only days before. IKEA had had a sale on.

 

The body that dropped into his living room was barely whole, and wasn't moving. Triangles of glass stuck out of one leg, ripped out of the frame as it fell into the room.

Peter stared, body completely rigid, tears of panic prickling his eyes, and watched as the body unfurled, ribs expanding in a shuddering breath. The sight of it urged his muscles back into motion, and he threw himself forward onto the floor, brows knotted and grip tight as he turned Wade onto his back.

He was broken. He was so broken.

Peter felt the salt of his tears drip from his nose onto his lips.

He couldn't tell what was fresh and what was beginning to heal as his eyes flashed frantically over Wade's body.

His jaw was unhinged, moving tissue sewing sinew and blood to flesh where it was torn. Something - a rib, maybe - jutted out on one side, rising and falling with shallow breaths. The glass dropped from muscle onto carpet as the lacerations sewed themselves together, albeit slower than usual, and the crunch of bone on bone was deafening.

His leg, ankle, toes were righting themselves, healing. His whole body was. There were no parts missing, but no part of him was whole. His face was covered in layers of dried blood - Peter didn't know where the source was. If it was even his.

He held his breath, ignored the heat in his cheeks and tears on his face, and pressed a palm to Wade's face. He didn't move.

Peter steeled himself, moved his hands down to the rug beneath him, and began to drag.

 

-

 

 

Wade awoke thrashing in bathwater.

 

Peter had dragged the entire rug into the bathroom and watched Wade carefully, intently, as he ran a bath. Cold tap, lukewarm, then hot. He didn't add any soap so as not to irritate Wade's sores, and once it was ready, lowered him into it. He kept the suit on (washing him and his clothes), figuring it was probably easier to undress him once movement wasn't as painful.

He had just finished removing Wade's mask, decimated from the bottom up, when Wade awoke, arms flailing out to the side with such force it knocked Peter down.

When he pulled himself up again, he noticed Wade trying to stand, boots slipping on the surface of the bath, head twisting up, down, left, right. He seemed lost. Like he didn't know where he was. He reached an arm up and Peter grabbed it, fingers tight around his wrist.

That's when he saw it. The blood had washed away from his head when he pulled the mask off, revealing what was underneath.

Wade had no eyes.

 

The matter itself was there, moving, writhing - reforming - but it was shallow. There was no substance yet. The skin around looked shiny and pink. Unscarred. It was freshly healed.

It was as if someone had taken a knife and _twisted_ until there was nothing left.

 

Peter's stomach lurched. Wade looked afraid. So he did the first thing that came to mind.

He got in the bath.

 

The fabric of his jeans clung to his skin as he sank down, hands reaching out to grasp at Wade's face.

"Wade. Calm down, please, I'm here. You can't see me but I'm here, alright? I've got you. Listen to my voice. I've got you."

Peter moved closer, water sloshing over the edge of the tub as he did so, and pressed his forehead hard into Wade's own. His legs unfolded and wrapped around his torso, holding him firm in place.

The voice that came from Wade's mouth was something Peter hadn't heard before. Quiet. Unsure.

"Pete?"

 

Peter let out a breath.

"Yeah, Wade. I'm here. I'm right here. You okay?"

"Hurts."

"Your eyes?"

Wade nodded.

Peter moved back to look at them, but found himself turning away. He pressed his cheek to Wade's, dug his chin into his shoulder instead. His eyelids clamped shut.

"What happened?"

"Gas. Knives. Bad stuff. I couldn't move. Couldn't see. I called in a favour, got dropped here. Broke the window. Pete, I can't see you, I wanna see you, my head's no good in the dark."

Wade shivered. The movement made the water dance. 

"I'm right here." Peter re-affirmed.

"Take my suit off? Please?"

The tone of voice broke something in him. Peter nodded, skin moving along Wade's cheek, and reached around him for the zip at the base of his neck, hidden by the fold of the collar.

He found it, pulled, and watched the suit split apart along his back.

Wade seemed to move instinctually, rolling his shoulders to move the leather off his skin, allowing Peter to pull at the gloves and peel the material from his arms. Pete held the suit down in the water as Wade lifted his hips, kicked his boots off once Peter had untied them and shucked himself out of the rest of the suit.

As soon as he had, he reached out, blindly grasping in front of him, and Peter locked his fingers through Wade's once more.

"I'm still here." He soothed, voice soft as the one Wade had spoken in. "Feel my skin. It's warm. I'm real, Wade. I'm real."

Wade stilled. The words seemed to calm him better than Peter's touch, so he repeated them.

"I'm real. I'm here, with you, in my bathtub, in my apartment...which is probably very cold outside this room because _somebody_ broke my window."

A short, single laugh burst out from Wade's throat.

The sound was absolutely everything to Peter.

 

"You want to hop out? Dry off, lie down with me?" Peter asked.

Wade nodded. 

"Alright, stand up with me. There we go. I'm gonna get a towel and drain the water. You stay there."

Wade nodded once more, and the lack of vocal response was so prominent it was louder than any words he might've spoken.

He knew he could talk. He just...wasn't.

 

Peter looked at the man, standing tall in the pink bathwater (doing exactly as he was told) and the ache in his chest flared. That was fine. He knew why Wade did it - chattered so loud it'd drown out the voices without mouths. Right now they must have been silent, because so was Wade. Peter shut the cupboard door and unfolded the towel in his hands, reaching down to pull the bath plug before he wrapped it around Wade's shoulders.

He took one of Wade's hands and led him over the rim of the bath, stood him on the tiles

"We're gonna walk to my room, okay? It's not too far. I'll lead you, just keep holding onto me." Peter said, taking slow steps, guiding him toward his bedroom. He felt the carpet under his feet and reached out for the lightswitch, clicking it up to douse the room in a yellow light.

He moved Wade back until his legs were up against the mattress.

"Sit?"

Wade sat.

 

Peter smiled at the action, bemused by the lack of a remark. He turned to the dresser and pulled out the same pair of sweats and same shirt Wade wore last time - washed and put away together in the bottom drawer.

When he turned back, he noticed the red of his eyes turning to pink. They were healing faster, now. Growing.

 

"Arms up." Peter said, and Wade did as he was told. He stood when Peter tapped his leg, let him strip the wet underwear from his body, and stepped into the sweats when they were held out for him. He did all of this without saying a word.

Peter bit at his lip.

"Can you still speak okay, Wade?" He asked tentatively.

Wade nodded.

"Can I ask...why aren't you?"

Wade was still for a moment. Then, slowly, he parted his lips. "When I talk, they talk back. They talk and they don't shut up, ever. Right now...I don't know why, but they're gone. I don't want--" he took a breath. "I just want to hear you."

 

The ache pushed against his chest.

Peter nodded, though he knew Wade couldn't see it, and unlooped the belt from his jeans. "I'm here. I'm with you, Wade."

He stripped out of his wet clothes quickly, skin shivering at the cool air, and pulled on the pajama pants he had been meaning to wash. Once he was dressed, he put a knee up onto the bed and crawled onto the mattress.

Wade followed.

He talked until the breathing behind him evened out.

 

 

 

 

Peter tucked his face into his pillow as he felt Wade curl closer around him.

Twenty minutes.

The ache in his eyes would subside, soon. He'd be able to see. He'd find his way home easy. He'd leave.

 

Peter dug his thumbnail into his forefinger. "Where did you go?"

His response was a whisper. Lips against his shoulder. 

"I wasn't meant to be gone so long."

 

"I was worried."

 

"I know."

 

Peter's chest felt tight, and the next breath came out as a sob.

"Why did you leave?"

His voice broke on the last word. It was pathetic, he knew it - crying over injuries he didn't have and whining that someone as flighty as Wade wouldn't stay in one place longer than a few hours. He hated it. Hated that his eyes were heating again and he couldn't have been strong for two more minutes until Wade left to break down.

His problems were his own, not Wade's.

The arm around his chest pulled at him, turning him until he was on his back. He let himself be moved.

 

"Pete. Look at me, please?"

 

Reluctantly, Peter rolled over and opened his eyes

The fresh skin on Wade's face was soft. Pink.

His eyes were so, so blue.

 

Peter bit the inside of his cheek and willed the ache to go away.

 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left, and that I didn't come back for weeks. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm a dick."

Peter nodded.

"A huge dick. A scarred, seven inch dick with-"

Peter smacked at him to shut him up. He wanted to laugh at it, but his throat was tight and he didn't trust himself to say too much, so instead he leaned forward and tucked his head under Wade's chin. He felt so small, there. He could hide from himself, pressed against his chest, eyes shut. He wouldn't think. He could just...be there. Allow himself to be held.

Wade seemed shocked at his movement - burrowing deeper into his body until his legs were tucked betweed Wade's own - but he settled, and let his arm drop down to Peter's back. Pete clutched at the fabric of (his? Wade's?) t-shirt and breathed out through his nose. He knew he was being petulant. He was being a child. But he didn't care. He gripped tighter onto the t-shirt and tilted his head up so he could see Wade's eyes again.

His tongue darted out across his lips, leaving them slightly shiny. Peter watched them, eyes darting from Wade's mouth to his eyes, waiting for him to speak.

But he didn't.

 

Peter let the ache go, and tilted his head up, up, until he could brush his lips against the scars on Wade's chin.

"Please don't listen to them. Just me. Don't let them tell you to leave me."

 

"Pete-" Wade's voice was a broken cry against his ear.

 

He moved his lips from Wade's cheek, ready to speak, but Wade had surged forward and suddenly his mouth was on his, swallowing his words, lips soft and dry and desperate, like he was afraid Peter would dissapear. His mouth opened out of shock and Wade's lips slipped between his own, warm and slightly wet.

Peter's dull buzz of anxiety dissipated into nothing as he pushed back, mouth finally moving to kiss him.

He felt a tongue in his mouth, barely brushing against his own, traveling in a long lick up to his top lip, and then it was gone. Wade's lips pressed against his once more, chaste, sweet, before he pulled away completely.

Peter sucked in a breath.

 

He wanted to ask him why he did it. What it meant. If they could do it again.

Instead, he said, "I like you, Wade."

 

Wade just looked at him for a moment.

Peter dropped his head back down to his chest and felt a hand come up to tangle itself in his hair, fingers threading through the long strands, blunt nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

 

"Will you stay? Will you tell them to let you stay? With me?"

 

Wade's voice was warm breath in his hair.

 

"I'll try."

 

 

For Peter, for now - that was more than enough.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a week, and this is what my brain decides to give. i had nice things planned. i don't know what this is. perhaps nice things next chapter?? if my brain allows???  
> progression? none. the judge's gavel has fallen.
> 
> (side note: how do you guys feel about gwen?)


	5. something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wants to know if they're dating.  
> Wade wants to know why Peter won't eat his donut.

"So, what you're telling me is: 'No, Wade, I don't accept your second profession of complete and total adoration.'"

Peter hid his smile in his coffee cup. "I'm not not accepting it, I just won't eat it."

Wade dropped the pink sprinkled donut back onto the plate, looking near disgusted with him.

"That is a clear non-acceptance. I thought we had something here."

"A something? I'm honoured. What a prestigious title. Shall I make jackets? I'm thinking a nice green."

"Green is so not your colour." Wade picked the donut up, bit at the side, and put it back down, neatly turning it on the plate so the bitten part wasn't seen. "You're distracting me. I'm hurt and offended. I may now need therapy after this rejection."

Peter snorted. "You needed therapy before. And I told you, Wade. I don't eat animal products. If you had've bought me a muffin from the vegan place down the road, maybe we'd have something."

"Just a something?" Wade raised his brows.

"Your words, _baby boy_."

Peter giggled at the face Wade made, lowering his mug to settle it on the little plate, that, really, was entirely useless outside of holding cups. Maybe an occasional spoon.  


Wade pointed a finger at him over the table. "That is my phrase, my wonderful Petey. You are the babiest of baby boys, and you will not misuse those words. Especially against me. We're gonna have a publishing issue and I'm gonna be behind it."

Peter hummed. Wade took a short sip of his tea - lavender, something Peter would never have guessed - and continued.

"Plus, if you wanted to talk about _somethings_ why did we come here and not your clean-green-save-the-planet grass hut?"

"It's not a hut, Wade, and vegans aren't all Green Peace and PETA. Besides, I don't have to pay extra for the rice milk because I work here."

"You brought me to your workplace on your day off?"

"Yeah, I wanted you to meet- her."

  


Wade turned his head in the direction Peter was facing.

Heading toward their table was a bright-faced woman with her hair pulled up in a high ponytail, platinum fringe hanging thick just above her eyebrows. She brushed her hands along her apron, looked up, and grinned.

"Peter!" She slipped her notebook into her pocket and reached over to smack him on the shoulder. "What are you doing in this shithole off duty? I saw you before but didn't have a chance to say hi: there's this dick in the corner over there that keeps complaining about his toast. Fucking toast. Honestly, I'm this close to losing it." She paused, caught her breath. "How are you anyway?"

Peter smiled at her, turned his gaze from her to Wade.

“Wade, this is my friend, Gwen. Gwen, this is my- Wade.”

Wade smirked at him, turning his attention to Gwen, who was already speaking.

“In the flesh! Finally, Pete - I was beginning to think you made him up. I’m Gwen, nice to meet you, Peter’s Wade.”

Wade smiled and took her hand when she extended it. "That'd be me. Nice to meet you too, Gwen."

“You're taller than I imagined - more Reynolds than Gosling. Oh! I’ve got to get back to that toast dickhead, but I’ll see you at work, Pete. Bye, Wade!” She smacked her fingers to her palm in a childlike wave, and moved away from the table, ponytail swinging as she walked. 

“Bye, Gwen!”

 

Wade turned to him, eyes wide. “I love her.”

“I thought you would.” He wrapped a hand around his mug, still warm though the contents were gone. “I thought here would be good, you know, to say hi first. Not a lot of time for lingering conversation if you weren’t up for it.”

"You are the sweetest heart I've ever met, baby boy."

Wade picked up the donut and took another bite. Sprinkles clung to his lips, sticky with the icing. Peter stared at them, wanting Wade to lick them off. Or to lick them off himself.

Wade met his eyes over the pastry, brows raised. “So...I’m your Wade now?”

Peter kicked his foot under the table.

“…I’d hope so.”

“Are we on something talk again? I’m not good at this one. I voted for Transformers 4 - I wanna rehash TJ Miller’s death scene.”

“We didn’t vote, and we’re not rehashing that. It was shit movie. Do you…do you not want-?”

“Pete. Petey-Peter. My sweet tree-hugging baby boy. If you want me, I’m all yours. I come with various mental health issues, the complete box set of Golden Girls, and a problem with sharing.”

Peter shifted his foot to it rest atop Wade’s sneaker.

“I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

 

-

 

 

 

Coming home didn't feel as nice as it did the previous weekdays.

He wasn't tired. He didn't want to do his usual eat and crash and sleep until the next day. He also didn't want to have to deal with the tragedy that was his window. Or, what was left of it.

He'd finished work half an hour after his shift ended, locked up, and boarded home - something he hadn't done in a long time. Lately he'd made a habit of catching the subway to the nearest stop and walking the rest of the day, but for some reason he'd lingered on the skateboard at the back of his closet - one he'd had since high school - and grabbed it before heading out.

It was nice to back on it. He navigated the bumps and potholes and curbs easily, reflexes making up for forgotten skill. He was smiling when he got to his building, but the nostalgic rush had passed by the time he got to his door.

 

He was alone in his apartment. That was the case every day, but it felt more present now.

Peter kicked his board off towards the wall, tossed his backpack in the same direction, and launched himself onto the couch.

His ass turned the TV on as he wriggled the remote from underneath him.

Everybody Loves Raymond. Classic. Peter always found the title amusing because, really, not everybody did love Raymond. Peter wasn't even sure if he loved Raymond. Maybe a solid indifference. He preferred the mountain of a brother that was always frowning and spoke what was on his mind. Reminded him of Wade a bit, thinking about it now.

He remembered his phone in the front pocket of his backpack when Ray and Robert where arguing about a spelling bee ('v a c double u!'). The battery had gone flat shortly before arriving at work, so he took it to the counter and plugged it in at the power outlet next to the stove. While he was there, he filled the kettle, clicked it on, and waited for the screen to light up.

He spooned out the triangular grains of instant coffee into one of his remaining clean mugs, half a sugar, and poured the last of his rice milk into the mix. His phone turned on the same time as the whistle of the kettle sounded, puffing steam up into the fan above.

The alert tones overlapped each other as his notifications came up all at once. Peter swiped across the screen to unlock it. Nine messages.

 

 

 **Wade:**  
_You know what word I like? Encroach_

 

 **Wade:**  
_I don't know what it means but it sounds sexy. 'I wanna encroach u baby boy'_

 

 **Wade:**  
_On second and third thought that sounds kind of creepy. Unless ur into that. In which case I will encroach you all night sweet bean._

 

 

He stopped his scrolling to tap on an incoming message from Gwen:  _You working tomorrow? I've swapped with MJ on the rota so I'll be late Fridays Saturdays again! :)_

He typed out a quick reply, letting her know yes, he'd be there, and why was MJ swapping shifts again? Before he flicked back to Wade's name.

 

 **Wade:**  
_Hey you remember the Olsen twins?_

 

 **Wade:**  
_I wonder what happened to them_

 

 **Wade:**  
_OH MY GOD I just saw your dopelgangar_

 

 **Wade:**  
_Dopelgenger_

 

 **Wade:**  
_Whatever it was a tiny midget who had the same face as you. Do you have a midget brother? Clone maybe??_

 

 **Wade:**  
_Do you think the word midget is politically incorrect?_

 

 

The last one had come through only an hour ago.

Peter looked up at the open window, the TV playing quietly, his closed bedroom door, his backpack that held his suit. He'd stopped wearing it underneath his work clothes after needing to wash coffee and sweat and sauce of it one too many times without ever putting the suit itself to use. He felt guilty doing it. Like he was putting his own job - the one that got him money - over his responsibilities to the city. He'd never needed to run out of the cafe to be Spider-Man before, but if he did...he'd have to hide, change, and hope he was back on the scene in time to stop whatever was happening. It was the possibility that messed with him. The possibility that someone nearby could get hurt, and he missed it. That he could have stopped it, but was pouring black coffee into businessmen's cups while they didn't even look up and acknowledge him. He was invisible as Peter. But that's who he was for the majority of his day. At times, he hated it.

A new message lit up his screen. He pulled the charger out, ignoring the '12% battery' alert, and carried it and his coffee back over to the couch. The breeze blowing into his face was icy. No amount of heat from the radiator could combat it, and Peter didn't have a tarp - so he did the next best thing. Or maybe a better thing: He reached into his backpack, aimed his wrist at the space, and webbed up the window. Once the layer was thick enough, he let himself fall back onto the couch, skinny jeans tight around his legs. He couldn't be bothered getting changed. His feet were sore. He might not move from the couch for the rest of his life.

 

 

 **Wade:**  
_Leaving me on read? Cold._

 

 

_I was. Had to funnelweb myself a new window pane_

 

 

 **Wade:**  
_I was totally gonna fix that but I forgot all about it_

 

 

_Uh-huh._

_Hey, reason I'm totally alone watching a 90s sitcom?_

 

**Wade:** _  
1\. Petey, you didn't tell me it was sitcom night, and 2. I have to feed my fish_

 

 

_You have a fish?_

 

 

 **Wade:** _  
Yes - DJ Spinderella, the light of my life. Aside from you and your glorious ass, of course._

 

 

_I would not trust you to keep a plant alive. How is this fish not dead already?_

 

 

 **Wade:** _  
You wound me. We need to work on your trust issues if this relationship is gonna work. I have an excellent self-help book .. somewhere._

 **Wade:** _  
Also, Althea looks after her when I'm gone for more than a few days_

 

 

_Althea?_

 

 

 **Wade:** _  
My landlady. Old, black, blind. Suspected cocaine fiend._

 **Wade:** _  
I'm still looking into that last part._

 

 

 

Through the pane above the webbed window, Peter watched the light fade to black. His phone binged in his hand.

 

 

 **Wade:**  
_You could meet her if u want? Swing by casa de la Deadpool sometime. I'll send you the address._

 **Wade:**  
_Though I much prefer your place_

 

 

_Why's that?_

 

 

 **Wade:**  
_It's warm_

 **Wade:**  
_It's clean_

 **Wade:**  
_You have a very comfortable bed & it doesn't stink like old food & feet_

 

 **Wade:**  
_But mostly cause you're there_

 

 

Peter stared at the last message. Who woulda thunk it? His chest swelled with something warm, completely obliterating the ache that had dug its way in the night before, and he typed back jokingly to stop himself from grinning like an idiot.

 

 

_You are an actual softie, you know that?_

_You may have to change professions_

 

 

 **Wade:**  
_Only for you_

 **Wade:**  
_But I can be hard for you, too_

 **Wade:** _  
If you know what I mean_

 **Wade:**  
_;)_

 

 

Peter was typing out his reply when another message from Wade popped up.

 

 

 **Wade: _  
_** _I'm talking about my dick _;) ;) ;)__

 

 

Peter ran a hand over his face and groaned into it.

 

 

_Thank you, Wade, I missed that._

 

 

 **Wade:**  
_You missed my dick?_

 **Wade:**  
_Dw bb boy I will fix u right up_

 

 

_Please don't_

 

 

 **Wade:**  
_Permission to wear heels in the bedroom? I wanna go all out_

 

 

_Wade._

 

 

 **Wade:**  
_My safeword is 'Do it again'  
_

 

 

_Goodnight, Wade_

 

 

 

Peter tossed his phone to the side and leaned back until his head hit the top of the couch.

He smiled at the ceiling.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> here is some nice fluffy niceness as a remedy for the last chapter. i could just write a straight (heh) chapter of these boys texting i love it.
> 
> (sorry to that one person who isn't a fan of gwen, i adore her and she must live on)
> 
> (+ question: how do y'all like the moody chapters vs. the lighthearted ones?)


	6. left side

Spider-Man's head hit the brick wall with a crack that silenced all other sounds in his ears.

A hand gripped the base of his skull, pulled back, then the same 'thud' was echoing through him again. It hurt. His body ached, but it was numb compared to the echoing pain in his skull. His knees buckled.

The hand brought his head forward once more, the force behind it doubled. The impact rolled his eyes to the back of his skull. He felt blood seep onto his face under his mask. The hand left his neck, and the sound footsteps picked up again, splashing in the downpour until they were gone.

Spider-Man collapsed onto the wet concrete. The rain washed his blood into the gutter.

 

 

 

 _"Oh, shit. Cock and balls in a harness this is bad, okay, Spidey, up we go._ _This was totally not part of my plan tonight. I had a great fucking plan - Bette Midler, ass-grabbing, cheese sticks. Fuck, no cheese. Ah, shit, Webs, say something so I know I'm not carrying a fucking corpse. I've done that way too many times and I don't ever wanna be carrying yours."_

He knew the voice, he knew the feel of the hands on his neck. He let his mask be pulled up and off. Fingers brushed over his eyebrow - it felt sticky there, and the action stung.

Peter eased his eyes open. The dull light that flooded into the gap between his eyelids was blinding. White, piercing. It went straight to his stomach, jostling up bile and whatever organs had been knocked loose during the fight. He must have passed out. He definitely passed out, and they'd gotten away. He was going to throw up, and not just from the feeling in his gut.

He was in a car. A cab, judging by the smell of the air freshener, the feel of the seat covers, the jingling of various things hanging from the rear-view mirror. His body rocked gently as the car turned. His face was tucked into Wade's lap - Wade's arms were moving him, lifting his wrists and peeling the suit back to the crease of his elbow, pulling something up his legs, pressing down at his waist.  
He risked opening his eyes again to turn his head and look down at himself. He recognised the fabric covering his arms and chest. It was Wade's Spider-Man hoodie.

_"Turn left- no, the other left. Coming up... Stop here!"_

 

The jolt knocked Peter's forehead into Wade's kneecap. The pain was a needle shot straight through his skull.

He clamped his eyes shut and willed it away. He didn't care how, he just wanted it all to stop. He followed the slice of pain and let it swallow him, sealing him inside his own head.

 

 

 

 

 

His back was on something soft. Cool, but not cold. The air around him had a chill to it. It was dark, but he could see a figure standing over him.  
The figure spoke, and the sound made Peter groan and twist his head into the - pillow? - beneath him, trying to block it out.

"Shh, I'm sorry, baby boy. How's this? Better?" He was whispering now - Wade. Still Wade. Still there, with him. In his bedroom. Peter wanted to touch him, make sure he was okay - Wade was always broken, bleeding and falling apart. He needed him to be okay so he could be okay himself.

He reached an arm out - bruised, sore - and felt the hoodie brush against his skin. "Wade?"

Wade bent down, closer to his face, and his features came into view. He was in his suit, katanas still strapped to his back, but his mask was off. Peter could make out his nose, the hollows of his eyes where he knew bright blues were looking back. Wade slipped gloved fingers through the spaces between his own and squeezed.

"One and only, Petey. How you feeling?" Another glove swiped across his head, brushing his hair back. "I'm totally miffed you didn't invite me to your masochist play session, but we'll discuss that later, yeah? I wanna make sure you're not a veggie-table. Can you say something else for me?"

Peter hissed at the feeling of fingers on his wound. "That hurts."

Wade chuckled at that.

"Right, sorry."

The fingers left for a moment, quickly replaced with what felt like one of his old towels - the scratchy ones he kept in the bottom of his bathroom cupboard - that had been wet and wrung out. It wiped slowly, gently across his eyes, his cheeks, his hairline until Wade seemed satisfied with it. Lips pressed on a bruise beside the wound. The ache was a pleasant one.

Peter rolled onto his side, letting Wade's hand go.

"I didn't catch them." He admitted.

"The baddies?"

"Mm. One of them was strong. Real strong, like me."

"Talking yourself up there, Petey-Pie?" Wade joked, but his voice was sympathetic.

Peter bit the sheet on the mattress beneath him. "I'd seen them around before, but didn't make a move on them. When I saw them tonight, I followed them. Didn't know one was a...I don't know. Mutant? Mutate, maybe? I was too busy pulling punches to realise his were landing like regular guys' don't."

Wade had a gentle grip on his wrists and pulled him up into a sitting position as he spoke, humming at his words. "And then?" He pulled the hoodie up and over his head. Once it was gone, Wade moved behind him to start pulling at the top of his suit.

"And then I got my ass kicked. By the time I realised what I was up against he'd knocked me against the corner of this building, then, kind of just- kept hitting me."

Wade's fingers stilled. "Fuck, Pete. You shoulda called me."

Peter snorted. "At what point? When I was getting my ribs broken or my forehead split apart?"

The hand on his back retreated at the vitriol lacing his tone, so Peter quickly reached up to chase it. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have gone after them alone if I'd known. I promise."

He brought the hand back down to his neck and pulled down at the suit, "Like this,"

"Peter,"

"It's okay, Wade," Peter assured, slowly stripping the suit down his torso.

Wade faltered, hands stopping above his navel, where a pair of jeans had been loosely pulled over his legs.

"That's not what I'm...Pete, you shouldn't have to make promises like that. Especially not to me."

The words made Peter pause, too. He looked up at Wade. "Why not? I'd want to know, if it were you."

"But you don't owe me that,"

"And I'm not invincible,"

"I know that, but you don't have to wait around for me to give the go ahead to-"

"That's not what you're asking me to do!" Peter paused and lowered his voice. "You want me to be safe. Because you care about me. Right?"

Wade turned and sat on the bed beside Peter's feet. "I do. A lot."

"Then there you go. This isn't about control, Wade. You don't have to worry about that. I'm not scared of you.  I don't owe you anything, you're right - I'm with you because I want to be. Because I choose to be. There isn't anyone else I'd trust with my mask. With me...and with Spider-Man."

Wade's shoulders shook, then - a slight movement that had Peter draping himself over Wade's back, suit and jeans tangling as he moved across the bed. He nuzzled his chin into the crook of Wade's neck, a wordless notion that had Wade shaking again, pulling Peter's arms further down his chest so he could press them to him. He didn't sob. Didn't speak. Peter let the room fall into silence and waited it out. Wade simply let out his breaths in a shudder and held Peter close to him. Peter felt his skin hum at the closeness. The warmth through Wade's suit on his skin, strong hands gentle on his arms. Hands that had killed, broken, maimed so many, now rubbing soothing circles into his knuckles.

Slowly, Wade's breathing evened out, deepening into a solid rhythm. Peter unhooked his arms from around Wade's neck. "You want to stay here tonight?"

Wade nodded. He didn't move from his place on the bed.

Peter shuffled back slightly to ease the jeans off, stripping the rest of the suit off with it. He was in briefs - boxers never worked out well with the tightness of the suit - but the rain had seeped through to the fabric and they clung to him, damp and uncomfortably warm. He looked up at Wade (the back of him, anyways) and frowned. He was still breathing fine, but his back was straight as a rod, muscles tense beneath the suit.  
He could shower later. Peter ran a hand along the sheath of one of Wade's swords.

"Are they talking again, Wade?"

Wade nodded.

"What do they say? The voices?"

"Boxes."

"Boxes?" Peter repeated.

Wade stood, leaving Peter's hand clutching nothing, and began toeing his boots off. "They're boxes. One's white, one's yellow. They talk to each other most of the time." Wade kicked his boots under the bed and reached up to remove his swords. "White thinks you're a liar."

Peter ignored the way Wade said the last part so conversationally, and instead moved to his dresser to grab a clean pair of boxers. He stripped the wet briefs down his legs, giving himself a once-over with the ends of the boxers to dry off a little before he stepped into them, elastic snapping in place below his navel. "What exactly does White think I'm lying about?"

He looked over his shoulder to see Wade staring at him. A rush of pink heated his cheeks, and he wondered how long he'd been watching. Or if he cared that he was.

Wade smirked. Good. The humor was back in him, and Peter was glad to let it be so.

"Aw, only everything. Thinks you're some kind of baddie on a long-term mission to fuck up my life worse than the terminal cancer."

"Can it still be terminal if you can't die?"

"That's what Yellow said! Plus, he thinks you'd be a horrible spy. You're too righteous. And distractible."

"Yellow sounds like you," Peter said, gathering up his wet underwear and tossing them toward the door. They'd make the rest of the washing in the laundry hamper wet, but they were going to be washed anyway, so fuck it. He flopped forward onto the bed and began to untuck the duvet.

Wade paused, hands on his belt. "They are me, in a way. Parts of me that are separated, but still hanging around. I had a shrink break it down for me using big words and textbooks once, but all I remembered from the session was that she was wearing a shirt with the cast of Full House and honestly, what kind of professional attire is that?"

Peter grinned up at him.

"Well, you wear a red bodysuit. You're a professional."

"So do you," Wade stripped the leather down his body in one fluid motion, "But I wouldn't call you a professional. More like a delinquent."

Peter's eyes wandered from Wade's face down to his chest, skin taught over muscles that were contoured by the shadows of the room. He was naked, aside from a pair of tight underwear that didn't leave much up to the imagination. He'd seen him like this before. In bed, tired from fighting. After showering. In the bath not a few nights ago - but the instances were tainted by the emotions he'd felt. Right now, he wasn't upset, or worrying over a broken body (except maybe his own). But he'd be fine. He always was.

Peter's eyes flicked back up to Wade's own and his mouth went dry. He was watching him - had been watching him. Peter flushed at the amused, slightly predatory look on Wade's face, and quickly averted his eyes.

"Now I'm thinking a _different_ kind of delinquent," Wade said, tone light and teasing. The bed dipped beside him. Peter moved over to let him have the left side.

 

An arm snaked around his chest, like it had the times before. The act felt familiar, now. Something soft and tender and not anything Peter thought he'd have for himself. He curled around it and brought Wade's knuckles up to tuck them under his chin.

"Well, aren't you just the cutest wittle spider."

Peter hummed, and pushed himself back against the warm body behind him. He tucked his knees up to fit himself alongside Wade, pushing his ass back into the space between them. He wriggled a little, settling into place, feeling the warmth all over now, and felt a hand grip his hip. Hard.

Peter stopped for a moment. Then began again, slowly, testing-

"Peter."

Wade's voice was low and clear in the dark of the room. It wasn't a question - Peter could hear that in his voice, but it wasn't a stop, either. So he continued.

Gently, he ground his hips back into Wade's groin, and felt the grip on his hip tighten. It was like a vice on his muscle, but it only spurred him on, repeating the movement with more force behind it this time. He shifted, ignoring the pinch on his skin, and pressed himself closer, hips rotating just a little. He could feel it. Could feel Wade's dick, right there, between his thighs, right up against his ass. A thrill ran up his spine and he canted his hips, back arching at the thought of them being so close.

The low groan in his ear caught him off guard.

He stopped moving momentarily, and that seemed to give Wade incentive to press his body down into the mattress.

"Wade?" Peter questioned.

Wade took a breath, shifted so his other arm could hold him up. He was leaning over Peter, now, eyes dark.

"Your head's bruised." He said.

"What?"

Wade let go of his hip so he could bring his other arm up beside Peter's head. "You're hurt, Pete."

"You're saying I shouldn't sleep with you because I have a head injury?" Peter balked.

Wade groaned - this time out of frustration. "No. Yes. I want to- fuck, I want to. But not tonight. I want you to be able to enjoy it."

"I will," Peter insisted.

"But I'll be worried I'll hurt you even worse, Pete."

The look on his face displayed a vulnerability Peter guessed not many had seen. He turned his head to the side to kiss at Wade's inner wrist.

 

"Alright." He looked up at Wade through his eyelashes. "As long as you kiss me again?"

Wade cocked an eyebrow. "Just kissing?"

Peter nodded hurriedly.

"Deal."

Wade leaned down, hovering just above Peter's mouth. He could feel the heat of his breath on his lips.

Peter sighed when he realised Wade was waiting for him - was making him reach up the extra centimetre. So he did. He leant up and connected their mouths, untucking his arms from his sides to wrap them around Wade's head and bring him down with him.

They moved together fluidly, like they'd been kissing each other for years. Spent days and months mapping out each other's mouths, and somehow it was all new again. Peter gasped as teeth grazed his bottom lip. The action let Wade delve deeper into his mouth, tongue mingling with his own in a sensation that both tickled and felt fucking amazing. He tilted his head back to allow him to do it again, lips working against Wade's with an urgency he didn't know he had. His hips canted up into nothing and he felt his face heat at the involuntary action. Wade didn't seem to notice, instead hooking his leg over Peter's own, hovering above him like he was afraid he'd crush him. Peter wasn't having it.

He moved his hands from Wade's neck down his sides, fingers trailing along the ridges of the scars there, down to his ass and _pulled._

Wade fell on top of him with a grunt.

The noise seemed to vibrate against Peter's cock, which now had a heavy amount of skin and muscle on top of it. Be bucked up, letting out a short whine when he found friction there. Wade bit into his lip at the action, and Peter keened. His lungs were aching for air, but he didn't want to break away from Wade's assault on his mouth. He was moving, now, biting lower on his lip, nibbling and kissing at the soft skin of his cheek. Peter heaved in a breath as Wade's lips and tongue left a trail of spit along his face. He could feel rough lips against his neck, in the soft spot under the point of his jaw.

He was about to ask Wade what he was doing when his teeth clamped down over the spot. Peter jolted up into the body above him, cock jerking in his boxers as his skin was pinched between top and bottom teeth, lips creating a vaccuum of suction that added to the tingling sensation that went right to his groin.

Wade let the skin go from his teeth but didn't move away, instead probing the area with his tongue, pressing into the bite mark and licking at it, soothing it. Peter's hands, long since dropped to his sides, clenched into fists. The nails he hadn't cut yet dug crescent moons into his palms. The sting only added to the coil growing in him, twisting tight.

Wade pulled away, panting. His breath was not on Peter's neck. Peter kept his hips gyrating underneath Wade's solid frame - he couldn't get off this way, but it felt nice, and it was _something_ to ease the heat Wade has sent down from his minstrations on his neck.

"I thought we said just kissing?"

Peter uncurled a hand to bring it up to Wade's head. His face was flushed. His eyelids were heavy.

"It's kissing with maximum effort?" He offered.

Wade moved so he was no longer straddling Peter, pulled the boy to him. "I'll show you maximum effort."

"I wish you would."

"Sassy. You need a guidance councelor."

"Or a master."

Wade snorted softly and dug his nose into the nape of Peter's neck. "Now you're getting into the kink territory."

Peter snuggled his ass back into Wade's crotch, but this time with less devious intent.

"Oh yeah? What's in that territory?"

"Weirdos. A lot of etiquette. Slaves, subs, Daddies."

"Like what Itsy Bitsy used to call me?"

"Mhm. You were the one with the daddy issue. I loved my title."

"Ugh, let's not rehash her. She doesn't fit in with this timeline. Also, Dead-Daddy?"

Wade stilled. "Baby boy, that sounds so much hotter when you say it. Also, you're not allowed to do that. No wall breakage, unless it's me doing it."

Peter laughed. His face crinkled the pillow.

"I rent here. No wall breakage at all."

Wade shook his head against Peter's neck. His nose nestled into his hairline. "Silly spider. I know- of course he doesn't. Because why would they? Hey, Pete?"

Peter ignored the self-conversation (Boxes, now. He knew he was talking to the boxes) and turned his head slightly. "Yeah?"

He could feel Wade's words as soft breaths on his skin.

"I like you, too." There was a pause. Dry lips in a kiss to his the nape of his neck. "White thinks you went to whore school, pulling a stunt like that. Sexual coercion."

"I'll show him sexual coercion." Peter said, mimicking Wade from earlier.

 

The cut on his eyebrow throbbed. The bruise surrounding it felt tender. But he didn't hurt anymore. He'd heal soon enough, and he could let the warmth of their bodies overtake the pain until then. He turned in Wade's grip until they were facing, and slowly pressed down on his chest until he was lying flat. Peter dove on top of him - careful to angle his head - and tucked himself around Wade like a blanket. The duvet bunched around his legs, so he pulled that up, too, and wrapped it around his shoulders.

"You comfy there, Webs?" Wade said, amused.

Peter only hummed.

 

 

At some point in the night, Peter felt the body shift beneath him. Hands gripped his arms momentarily, then the warmth slipped away, and he was resting against the lingering heat in the mattress.

His head shot up. "Wade?"

The retreating figure stopped. He wasn't dressed. Wasn't reaching for clothes.

"Yeah, hey. Sorry for waking you up. I'm just going to take a piss."

Peter felt his face heat in embarrassment. 

"I'm not leaving, Pete. Promise. I do have to leave this room to piss, though." He said, taking tiny, shuffling steps toward the door.

Peter groaned into his pillow. "Sorry, I'm a baby. Go pee."

"Pfft, _my_ baby."

The door mimicked his groan as it opened. Peter didn't argue with that.

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Wade fumbled around in the cupboard above the stove.

"Honestly! This is fucked!"

Peter grit his teeth at the sound of the ceramic clinking together. He was totally going to break something, and Peter didn't want to have to take money out of the food budget to replace thrift store mugs.

"Where are your cartoons?!" Wade shouted, finally slamming the cupboard door shut.

Peter looked up from his cereal.

"Huh?"

"How can you possibly enjoy your thirty coffees per hour in a mug like this? White, plain, holds liquid. Useless. Not good enough. You need a Batman mug."

"What's a Batman?"

"The Caped Crusader. Utility belt totally less useful than mine. Wears a lot of eyeliner."

"Is he in the kink community too?"

Wade let out a laugh. "Maybe. Hey, I have a whole collection of Loony Tunes cups at home. I have no idea where they came from but they're my children now. My Batman mug is my pride and joy." He turned away from the cupboard with a ballerina-like spin. "I'm gonna bring them here."

"Your children?"

"Yeah. You can't live like this, Pete. You need cartoons. I am going to bring you cartoons."

Peter smiled, eyes soft.

"Maybe bring some of your clothes, too?" He said.

Wade tilted his head.

"You know, for when you break in to use the shower, you'll have something to change into. The bottom drawer of my dresser is empty anyway." Peter's eyes flicked over to the window, which was covered in multiple strips of duct tape. "How did you get in last night, anyway?"

Wade's eyes glinted. "I happen to carry a lot of knives on me."

"No knives in your drawer."

"Not even Sylvia?"

"Especially not Sylvia."

"But Petey-Baby-Boo, you haven't even met her!"

"I don't need to, nor do I want to. No weapons in your drawer."

"But if it's _my_ drawer-"

"No knives. No guns. Nothing that could be used to stab, slice, shoot or otherwise unalive someone."

"You're no fun. I take back my vote for you for Sexiest Hero of the Year. Say goodbye to being Mr. February."

Peter rolled his eyes. "This ass could be Mr. February anytime it wanted. Plus, if that was thing, you'd totally vote for yourself."

Wade pointed a finger at him. "And you'd better, too. Or we're gonna have words. And I may have to spank you."

 

Peter pushed up from the bench and clicked the kettle on - something Wade was seemingly having immense amounts of trouble doing.

"Now you're sounding like a daddy." He teased, reaching around Wade to grab the milk out of the fridge. He felt firm fingers pinch at his ass, and he turned to see Wade grinning at him.

"That'd make you the baby boy, you know."

Peter turned closer so he was pressed up against Wade, careful of the kettle boiling away on the stove next to them. He looped his arms up and around the taller man's neck and batted his eyelashes (in what he hoped was soft and innocent and alluring, and not like something was in his eye). He tilted his head, a coy smile spread across his features, and leaned in close.

"I thought I already was your baby boy, Daddy?"

The kettle whistled, and a puff of steam blew out towards his arm, beginning to burn at the skin on his forearms.

He stayed still where he was, watching Wade's eyes widen and a redness flush under the map of scars on his face. He opened his mouth, blinked, and said nothing.

Peter let go of Wade's neck and brought his arm up to rub at the sore skin.

The burn was worth it just to know he'd rendered Wade speechless.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> here we go: some self-cockblocking, snuggles, and the return of wade's batman mug  
> tell me your thoughts! alternatively, tell me what kind of apple is your favourite. i adore yall <3
> 
> (extra note: the daddy thing isn't hinting at anything. i'm just havin' some fun with it)


End file.
